


Bigger Every Day

by azurejay (andchimeras)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Age Play, Gen, Non-Sexual Kink, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-27
Updated: 2007-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 07:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/azurejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As soon as she wakes up, Ashlee decides she wants to make cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bigger Every Day

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is made of ageplay: Ashlee roleplays/regresses to six years old, Pete takes care of her.

As soon as she wakes up, Ashlee decides she wants to make cookies.

"Let's wait until after lunch," Pete says, brushing her hair while she brushes her teeth.

She takes her toothbrush out of her mouth and scowls. "Wednesdays are Daddy days and we do _fun_ things," she says. "Like make chocolate chip cookies." She puts her toothbrush back in her mouth and glares at him in the bathroom mirror.

Pete puts her hair up in a ponytail with a sparkly silver elastic, and then her favourite Hello Kitty scrunchie. "We can make cookies," he says, deliberately vague about _when_. "But I think you should have some cereal first. And maybe watch Blue's Clues?"

She says, "Okay," through a foam of Crest, and rinses her mouth. She gargles messily and grins at him, water wetting the front of her red flannel Snoopy pajama top. "Clean teeth, see," she says.

"All clean," he says, and grins back.

"I want Apple Jacks," she says on the way to the kitchen, holding his hand. "And orange juice."

"Apples and oranges?" he says, and she laughs.

Pete helps her drag the giant bag of dog food out of the hall closet. Hemingway peeks around the corner when he hears the bag open.

"Breakfast time," Ashlee tells him, and he waddles over. Pete holds the bowl while she carefully scoops Hemingway's breakfast into it. She sets it on the plastic mat with Hemingway's water dish. When he comes over to eat, she hugs him around the neck and rubs her face on his fur. "Good morning, Hemmy," she says.

Pete helps her up onto a stool at the kitchen island and lets her pour cereal for both of them. He keeps one hand on the jug of milk in case it slips. Little things, the things he does to help her feel small; the things he just does, automatically, after two years.

He sets out their pills beside their bowls. Ashlee watches while he swallows his meds.

"Orange juice tastes funny right after you brush your teeth," she says, frowning at her Flintstones vitamin.

"I know, it's gross," he says, wrinkling his nose against the taste in his own mouth. "Take your vitamin. It's Dino, he's the best."

"Fine," she says, with a huff, but she does as she's told. She's mostly a pretty good kid.

  
After breakfast, Ashlee huddles up under a blanket on the couch, Hemingway half in her lap. Pete puts Blue's Clues on and goes to clean up the mess of spilled milk, cereal, and dirty dishes in the kitchen. He's moving slow, dragging himself to the sink to rinse out the milky dishcloth, yawning and blurry. He only got two hours of sleep, because Wednesday at home means getting up at eight-thirty, turning on the coffee maker, brushing his teeth, and sneaking down the hall to the guest room to gently wake Ashlee up.

The first few weeks, she stayed in his room overnight, but it was weird to spoon with her all night and wake up to her trying to be six years old. It was hard for him to get into the headspace of taking care of her instead of just caring for her, and she told him it was hard for her too.

"I never slept in my parents' bed after I was, like, three," she said.

"Not even when you had nightmares?" he asked, thinking about climbing into his mom's half-asleep arms when he was nine, ten, eleven.

"Especially then," she said.

So, while Ashlee was in London or something one week, Pete hired a bunch of guys to come and paint his guest room pale yellow. He put in real hardwood floor and bought a truckload of white, old-fashioned furniture. It wasn't a kid's room, exactly, everything was proper-sized and nothing had unicorns on it. It looked like he just wanted a nice yellow guest room.

"I like it," Patrick said, nodding and reaching up to touch the star-spangled white canopy over the bed. "But I could've sworn you said you were putting in a studio."

"It's for my parents," Pete said, and Patrick shut up.

He tried to make it not a lie. His parents slept there one night, and decided they liked the Roosevelt better. Historic boutique hotels don't tend to smell like dog. They also have turn-down service and food that isn't cooked in a microwave.

Ashlee walked through the door of her yellow room and turned around and smiled at him, all black coat, black jeans, little black shoes, and jet-black hair again. "Oh, I love you," she said.

"There's, look, in here," he said, and opened the closet door, excited for her to see the very best part: a two-storey white clapboard dollhouse.

"Can it be Wednesday already?" she asked, laughing, kneeling beside it to touch the shiny glass windows and bright green shutters. "I want to play with it right now."

"Totally beat you to it," he said. He opened the front of the house to show her his Fall Out Boy dolls, all posed with wrong-sized instruments, surrounded by fallen Todd MacFarlane and Lego figures. "We played an apeshit house party on Saturday night. See the passed-out midgets?"

"You can't _play_ with my _toys_," she said, incredulous. "That's so not allowed."

"I was making sure it worked right," he said, shrugging and wide-eyed.

She rolled her eyes and smacked the back of his head. "Whatever."

Two years later, there's a wheeled trunk hidden under the double bed's white skirt. Its contents include: a little wooden rainbow with the letters A-S-H-L-E-E glued on it, which hangs from the guest room doorknob on Tuesday and Wednesday nights; a colony of Barbies and GI Joes, all wearing each other's clothes; DVDs from Dora the Explorer to Fraggle Rock to the Magic School Bus to the Muppets; a cache of Dr. Seuss and Little Golden Books and children's encyclopedia supplements; and a wooden toy piano, painted red. Ashlee hardly ever sings for him when she's big, but on Wednesdays, she's always singing some nonsense, or something from the radio. Never any of their own songs.

  
The kitchen clean for now, Pete pours himself another cup of coffee and collapses on the couch beside Ashlee and Hemingway.

"I already solved the puzzle," Ashlee says. "I think I'm too big for Blue." She looks sad so Pete lifts his arm. She crawls under and pulls her blanket up around them. Hemingway rolls away, snuffling, and falls back asleep.

"It's okay to get big," Pete says cautiously. It doesn't happen a lot, but once in a while Wednesdays are more "Ashlee needs dinner and a movie with her boyfriend" days than they are "Ashlee needs Playdoh and her teddy" days. "You don't have to stay small. You know you don't have to do anything you don't want to on Wednesdays."

Ashlee sighs and shakes her head. "No, that's not what I _mean_. I mean I'm getting _older_. It's almost my _birthday_."

"Oh," Pete says, and counts in his head. She's right; it's nearly October. "It sure is almost your birthday. How old are you turning this year?"

"Seven, Daddy," she says, exasperated.

Which is another thing all together, this being called "Daddy" stuff. He'd never understood it, never found it sexy or even naughty, just kind of creepy, until the first time Ashlee did it, maybe the ninth or tenth Wednesday. It slipped out while they were playing a boardgame and she was chattering about her Barbies, "--and then Skipper got so mad, Daddy--" and her eyes went big and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

"I'm sorry," she said, muffled. "I didn't mean it." Like she'd said a swear or something.

And it wasn't like--he didn't think it was hot, her sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, all knees and elbows in a My Little Pony sweatshirt and Playdoh-smeared jeans. He just felt protective of her and of the happiness she got out of the whole thing, and glad he could be a part of it. Glad he could do this for her and not fuck it up.

So he reached across the Clue Jr. board and touched her shoulder and said, "I don't have to be Pete all the time, Ash. You call me whatever makes you happy, okay?"

Her forehead wrinkled and she nodded and dropped her hand. "Can we talk about it tomorrow?" she said hesitantly.

"Yeah, sure," he said, relieved. And the next day, they talked about it like rational adults and now, when Ashlee is small, sometimes Pete is just Pete, her babysitter, her guardian, her bestest friend, himself, and sometimes Pete is Daddy, her guardian, her bestest friend, her favourite dad. Not that she's ever said it in so many words, but he can tell. He's totally a better dad than Joe.

"Let's go to the zoo for your birthday," Pete says. "We can have cake and ice cream and all our friends can come."

"We can play with the monkeys," Ashlee says. "They'll help me open my presents."

"Awesome," Pete says. He kisses the top of her head and smooths her hair and wonders if he could rent some monkeys for his backyard. They hardly ever go past his front gate on Wednesdays. There are cameras out there. Ashlee hates having her picture taken when she's little, even by Pete.

  
They watch the rest of the Blue's Clues DVD, and then some Dora, and then Ashlee decides it's time to get dressed. Pete helps her pick out clothes and leaves her alone, retreating to his room to put on clean sweats and a hoodie. They tidy up a little bit, Ashlee dusting the bottom shelves of things and Pete dusting the higher up ones--Ashlee holds the chair he has to stand on to reach the top of his bookcases and sings him a song about how fun it is to clean the house. They fold laundry until they get bored, three t-shirts in. Pete makes grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch. Ashlee puts half a package of crackers in her soup, as usual.

"I want an ice cube in it," she says, her nose wrinkling. "It's too hot."

"Magic word," he says, blowing on a spoonful of cracker-free soup. He's trying, randomly, intermittently, to watch his empty carbs. He's almost thirty, seriously.

"_Please_ can I have an ice cube in my soup, pretty please with _sprinkles_ on top," Ashlee says. She sticks her tongue out at him.

"So rude, Ash," Pete says. "Rude kids probably don't get to make cookies, you know." He gets her an ice cube anyway, because she did say please.

"Except for me," she says. "I'm special." She stirs the ice cube around in her cracker-y soup and eyes him speculatively in a way that makes him think he's _Pete_ at the moment, not _Daddy_. "Right?"

"Special. Hm. That's one word for it," Pete says. She flicks cracker crumbs at him and he laughs.

  
The kitchen is a mess of flour, egg shells, and thrown chocolate chips when Pete hears the sound of a key in the front door lock, and the door opening and closing. Ashlee looks at him with wide eyes. "Who is it?" she asks.

"I don't know, let me see," he says. "Just hang out here for a minute, Ash." He puts down his spoon and is licking cookie dough off his fingers when he gets to the foyer, where Patrick is hanging up his coat. Pete freezes.

"Oh hey Patrick," he says around his finger.

"Hi, Pete," Patrick says. He raises his eyebrows, looking confused.

"What's up?" Pete says. He takes his finger out of his mouth and wipes it on his floury shirt. "How are you?"

"Bored," Patrick says. He lifts his laptop bag for Pete to see. "I thought we could maybe do some work. I didn't think you were busy today--"

"Uh," Pete says.

"Patrick!" Ashlee says behind him. "We're making cookies!"

"Ashlee!" Patrick says, smiling at her. "Awesome."

"You can help," Ashlee says. She clasps her hands behind her back and cocks her head. "I bet you're good at cookies."

Patrick shrugs and makes a modest face. "Maybe a little."

"Ashlee," Pete says sharply. "Go make sure Hemmy's not getting into anything, okay."

She looks alarmed and rushes back to the kitchen.

"Dude, don't snap," Patrick says, frowning.

"I," Pete says. "We're."

"Making cookies," Patrick says.

"It's--we haven't seen each other in a month, since she was out with us that week, so," Pete says.

"Oh," Patrick says, like he just remembered they only got back from tour three days ago. "Yeah. So. You're making cookies. That's--not a euphemism, right? Because Ashlee said I could help, and seriously, dude--"

"_No_," Pete says. "Not--no. We're making cookies, for real. Actual, factual, chocolate chip cookies. From scratch."

"Okay," Patrick says. He pushes his glasses up his nose. "Cool. Can I help?"

"Yes!" Ashlee yells from down the hall.

Pete makes himself smile and crosses his arms. "I guess so," he says.

"Is she tweaking or something?" Patrick asks quietly, using his finger to illustrate "up spiral".

"Oh, no, she's fine," Pete says. "She's just excited that I'm back. And she likes--cookies."

Patrick squints at him sceptically.

"And she's got a bit of a cold," Pete adds, waving his hand as he makes shit up. "Dayquil, Sudafed, you know how she mixes shit."

Patrick nods, not looking entirely convinced. "All right."

"You don't have to," Pete says.

"I know," Patrick says. He shrugs. "But I seriously have nothing better to do. And I like cookies too."

  
It's really, strangely, not that weird. Patrick and Ashlee decide round cookies are boring, so Patrick rummages around in Pete's kitchen drawers for cookie cutters until he finds an unopened set of plastic Christmas shapes. Pete thinks they might have been an ironic housewarming gift from Andy.

"Oh hey, I totally forgot I had those," Pete says.

"Colour me shocked," Patrick says. Ashlee giggles and helps him unwrap the cookie cutters.

"Colour Me Badd," Pete says. Patrick laughs and goes off on a half-hour tangent about R&amp;B groups from his childhood getting back together and how awesome it is. As he talks, he flours the plastic shapes and helps Ashlee roll the dough flat, press the cutters in, peel the cookie shapes out, and flop them on the greased baking sheet. Patrick gets flour all over his sweater vest and jeans. Ashlee is quiet, holding her tongue between her teeth in concentration, listening to Patrick and focusing on the cookies.

So they have a batch of cookies shaped like candy canes, Santa heads, stars, and trees. In September.

"There should be a reindeer one," Ashlee says, eating a glob of dough, watching the cookies bake through the oven door.

"Yeah," Pete says. "Take it easy on the cookie dough, kid. You're going to make yourself sick."

"But Pete, I'm _hungry_," she says. "What's for dinner?"

"I don't know," Pete says. He's too full of cookie dough to think about real food at the moment.

"Pizza," Patrick says at the sink, washing the mixer arms and bowl, his sleeves rolled up around his elbows.

"You're staying?" Pete asks, making his voice just curious. He's not sure if he wants Patrick to stay. Ashlee seems--

"Say yes," she says to Patrick.

\--Ashlee seems okay with it, but.

"Not only am I staying, I am buying," Patrick says.

"I want Pizza Hut. With pineapple," Ashlee says.

"Just pineapple?" Patrick says, wrinkling his nose.

"Just pineapple! And extra cheese! And _cheese_ in the _crust_!" Ashlee says gleefully.

"You're a sick kid, Simpson," Patrick says. He shakes his head. "A sick, sick kid."

She laughs, leaning her whole torso on the kitchen island; her pink-socked feet leave the floor. She looks happier than the day her Easy Bake Oven arrived from eBay, complete with a year's supply of brownie and angel food cake mixes.

"Pizza it is," Pete says.

  
By the time the pizza comes, there are about two hundred cookies stacked in the kitchen: on cooling racks, dish racks, TV trays, and plates. A small space on the island is clear in front of Ashlee's stool.

"We made cookies," she says happily, hopping up into her seat.

"Yeah," Pete says, pulling out a wide slice of cheesy pineapple pizza for her. "We totally did."

Patrick chews a bite of meat-free pepperoni. He swallows and says, "I can take some home, right? They're really good."

"Only the Santa head ones," Ashlee says.

Pete sets to work cutting Ashlee's pizza into bite-sized pieces. He doesn't really think about it. Well, he does, but only as much thought as is required for taking a knife and fork out of the drawer.

"Why only those ones?" Patrick asks, frowning. "I'm the one who found the cookie cutters."

Ashlee rolls her eyes. "Because they have hats," she says. "Duh, Patrick."

Patrick stops chewing and cocks his head, squinting at her. He nods. "Okay, whatever. As long as I get some. Dude," he says to Pete, "why are you cutting her pizza up?"

Pete looks up, frozen. Ashlee grins at him and bites her lip.

"Uh," Pete says.

"It tastes good cut up," Ashlee says. "You should try it, Patrick."

Patrick raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at them, but he's smiling a little. "You guys are fucking nuts," he says affectionately.

Ashlee claps a hand over her mouth. "Swear jar," she says, muffled. She points at Patrick and looks at Pete. Patrick throws his hands up and tugs on his hat, giving Pete a look of utter exasperation.

Pete just can't anymore. The absurdity of the whole thing, the whole afternoon and evening, the acres of cookies and pizza stretching across his kitchen, all of it catches up with him and he starts laughing. He holds on to his knees and drops the cheese-covered knife he was cutting Ashlee's pizza with; his eyes water and tiny, hot tears spill down his cheeks. He hears Ashlee giggling and eventually Patrick laughs a little too.

"Okay, yeah," Pete gasps, leaning on the counter. He takes a few deep breaths and wipes his eyes and picks the knife up off the floor. "Yeah, the f word is definitely a swear jar offence," he says to Patrick with a very regretful expression. He's pretty sure it is, anyway.

Patrick squints at him. "Are you kidding me--"

"We're making a music room for the kids in Africa," Ashlee says. She points up at the top of the fridge, where a giant, hollow plastic Eiffel Tower--"One night in the Paris, Las Vegas Hilton," Pete likes to say, with a leer--is almost filled with change. "When you say a swear, you have to help make the music room," she says. She tugs on Patrick's sleeve and gives him the big eyes.

"Oh," he says. He looks from her to the jar to Pete. Pete shrugs. He has a lot of semi-secret projects. He's good at secrets. Patrick sighs and digs his hands into his pockets. "Fine."

"Awesome," Pete says, grinning. "I am so going to be Gulu's favourite white guy."

"Dude, if you stay _out_ of the music room, they'll probably totally put a statue of you in the town square," Patrick says. He puts a fistful of quarters, nickels, and pennies in Ashlee's cupped hands

She smiles and holds her hands out to Pete so he can see Patrick's contribution, including two little white balls of pocket lint and a scraggly green thread.

"Thank you," Pete says. Patrick nods and puts his hand on the back of his neck. Pete touches Patrick's elbow. "Seriously. Thank you, Patrick."

Patrick says, half-defensively, "If you'd told me, I would've--"

"You still can," Pete says. "I just don't want everybody ever to know about it."

"Okay," Patrick says. "I get it."

Pete hugs Patrick, his arms wrapped around Patrick's biceps so Patrick can't do anything but put his hands on Pete's back and wait it out. "You always get it," he says to Patrick's neck.

"Pete," Ashlee says. "Can you get the jar down so we can put Patrick's pennies in? I can't reach."

"He can't either," Patrick says, and Pete pokes him in the kidneys. He doesn't do it very hard.

  
They take the pizza downstairs into the theatre and watch _Monsters, Inc._ because it's one of Patrick's favourite movies.

"You're Mike Wazowski," he tells Pete, petting Hemingway in his lap.

"I am not," Pete says. "You think you're tall enough to be Sully?"

"Be Mike, Pete," Ashlee says, draped over his shoulder, half in his lap, sharing his seat. "I'd get to be Celia. Her hair is so cool, with snakes!" She curls her fingers into fangs under her ears and makes hissing noises.

"Plus, I like babies," Patrick says.

"You do wear blue and purple a lot," Pete concedes.

"This is what I'm saying," Patrick says. He grabs another slice of pizza from the box and turns back to the movie.

"I want to be Celia-welia for Halloween," Ashlee says. "That would be the best."

"Totally," Pete says. "I'm still being Freddy Kreuger, though."

"Scary," Ashlee says, shivering. "I'm not going trick or treating with you."

"Then who will you go with?" Pete asks.

"Patrick," Ashlee says.

Patrick looks over, in the middle of taking a bite of pizza, his glasses sliding down his nose. He shrugs and makes an affirmative noise.

"Awesome," Pete says. "We'll talk about it tomorrow," he tells Ashlee. She frowns hard, so he dumps her over in his lap and tickles her. She shrieks and kicks her legs perilously close to Patrick.

"I'm trying to watch the movie," he shouts. Hemingway woofs, like he's in agreement. "Geez, you guys!"

  
It's so totally past Ashlee's bedtime before Pete makes Patrick go home.

"It's not even ten," Patrick says, watching Pete fill a giant Tupperware box with cookies to take home. Ashlee is brushing her teeth and putting her pajamas on. She'd been mutinously silent when Pete finally directed her down the hall.

"She has a meeting at like eight o'clock," Pete says. "Um. And I do too. With, uh. Invisible Chidren. For the music thing."

"Whatever," Patrick says sceptically.

"And we still have to make cookies," Pete says.

"What?" Patrick says.

"Euphemistic cookies," Pete says. He presses the blue lid firmly onto the Tupperware.

"_Pete_," Patrick groans.

Pete grins and holds out Patrick's cookies. "You can help if you want," he says. He's just fucking with Patrick. There will be no euphemistic cookies. Pete is not that kind of dad, or that kind of babysitter.

"Fu--screw you," Patrick says, and grabs the container. "I'll send you a cheque," he adds, nodding up at the plastic Eiffel Tower on Pete's fridge.

"Yeah," Pete says. "That'd be awesome." They head for the front door.

"We should get used instruments," Patrick says, putting on his coat. "Keep it as sustainable as possible."

"Does Patrick really have to go home?" Ashlee says from the hallway. She's pouting, forehead scrunched, hands twisted into her Rainbow Brite pajama top.

Pete nods. "Yes, Ash. Everybody needs to sleep at their own houses tonight, except for you."

"Because I'm special?" she says, coming closer.

"Yep," Patrick says. She smiles and hugs him up around his neck. "You're definitely special," he says, patting her back and rolling his eyes at Pete.

Pete puts his hands in his pockets and smiles at them.

  
He locks the door behind Patrick and turns to look at Ashlee. "Bedtime," he says.

"I'm not sleepy," she says.

"Just lay down and I'll read you a story," he says. He takes her hand and they walk down the hall. "Before you know it, you'll be asleep."

"I want to watch the movie again," she says. "I missed a whole bunch."

"It'll still be there tomorrow," he says.

"I hate tomorrow," she says. She stomps in to her room and flings herself down on the bed.

He pulls her blankets up over her, tucking it under her arms tight so she can't move.

"Daddy," she whines, wiggling. He pokes her in the tummy and tickles her through the blanket. She giggles and sighs.

"'The Frog Prince,'" he says, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down in to the trunk of toys and books. The name placard from her door is in there too; he'd snuck down the hall and put it away after Patrick arrived. Pete is good at keeping things secret.

"'Sleeping Beauty,'" she says.

"'Rapunzel,'" he says.

"'Cinderella,'" she says.

"'Snow White,'" he says.

"'The Three Bears,'" she says, and yawns.

"'The Three Little Pigs,'" he says.

"Okay," she says. She tugs her arms out of the blankets and crosses them behind her head, her hair long and loose and honey bright. "You have to do the voices," she adds seriously.

"I will totally do the voices," he says, just as seriously, and he does.

  
"I missed you," she says sleepily, when the story is over and the trunk is back under the bed and all the lights are off except her Tinker Bell nightlight in the corner. "You were away so long this time. Coming on the bus is not the same. We missed ten whole Wednesdays."

"I know," he says, kneeling beside the bed. He pets her hair and tucks the blanket more securely under her chin. "I missed you too."

"Patrick took his cookies, right?" she asks after a minute, obviously trying to keep herself awake.

"He did," Pete says. "But they're such good cookies, I don't know if they even made it back to his house. He probably ate them all up in the car on his way home."

Ashlee rolls her sleepy eyes. "Whatever, Daddy." She yawns. "He can come back and make more."

"Sure," Pete says. He folds his arms on the edge of the bed and puts his chin on them, watching her fall asleep.

"I don't want tomorrow to be here yet," she says, slow and quiet, just on the edge of dreaming. "I have a stupid, boring, grown-up meeting."&lt;

"Me too," he says, and shrugs. "Sometimes we have to do stupid, boring, grown-up things, baby."

She sighs. "I just wish they weren't after Wednesdays." Her eyes close and stay closed. He stays for long minutes, making sure she's asleep, watching the time tick past on her Care Bears clock.

"Me too," he whispers, after her breathing has slowed, turned weighty and deep. "Good night, star bright."

  
End.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not in favour of people participating unwittingly in relationship dynamics. I just wanted Patrick to make cookies with Ashlee and didn't want to write the negotiation scene. My ethics, I am willing to sacrifice them for adorable. SRY.


End file.
